The Loop Road Goes On Forever And The Party Never Ends

The Old Girl rides again! Red dirt, blue skies. The 4Runner at Snow Canyon State Park in Southern Utah.

Alright, so I'm not very good at making dedicated posts on this damned blog thing. It's usually a pain in the ass, and I'm inherently lazy with this sort of thing. Oh well, here's a long overdue trip report from this spring.

Smith at Snow Creek, warmin' up on sandstone, which is a little bit like whiskey: scary shit for a while before you learn to like it.

Without boring the ever-loving shit out of whoever is unfortunate enough to actually be reading this thing, here's the abbreviated version of the end of my winter. Ice season, like all good things in life, had to end sometime. See ya next year, screaming barfies. After an unbelievable winter of logging over fifty days swinging ice axes, the end of March saw the closing of the Hyalite road, which meant one thing for me: Red Rocks, Nevada.

Zion National Park - After Ben said that this was his fourth attempt climbing here, I figured the odds were stacked in our favor for good weather (No one gets stormed out 4 times in a row, right?). Wrong. Here comes the snow and the rain.

After shedding a few tears while packing away the ice gear for the season (a HUGE thanks to all my friends and climbing partners in the Bozone who made this winter climbing season one that I will remember for the rest of my life), it was time to man up and pack the truck for three straight weeks of desert Southwest rock climbing madness. I slammed the 4Runner into gear and drove up and over the Divide to the quaint drinking town of Missoula, MT to pick up fellow dirtbag Ben Smith, who had made the wise decision to say screw it to catching up on shool lab assignments in favor of pulling hard in the desert sunshine.

This might be my favorite pic from the whole trip. This fashion statement turned the climbing world on its head. Or its just plain creepy. Either way - parents, lock up your kids. Smith racking up for Crabby Appleton (5.9+).

We drove all night in a vehicle that tops out somewhere around 60 mph on the highway, and finally crashed out in the desert scrub just north of St. George, Utah at the Prophesy wall. The plan was to warm up on some sport climbs so we could get in the sandstone groove before gunning some aid lines an hour away in Zion. The warm up was great, but as soon as we got to the Park it started snowing on our asses, in spite of three different forecasts saying nothing but sunshine.

Minutes after my first whipper on a cam, a few hundred feet off the deck (Dream of Wild Turkeys, 5.10a). Thank God for those traverse bolts at the end...

We talked briefly with this bad ass little French dude and his hot blonde California girlfriend who had managed to fix the first 4 pitches of Moonlight Buttress just before the storm hit (apparently its not enough for the French to invade our country and pull harder than we do, they also have to pillage our women). They were going to shiver it out in the cold weather and let the wall dry, but we weren't down with snow or missing a climbing day, so we bailed for Vegas.

Smith makin' it look easy, business as usual in the life of a bad-ass. No big deal on Dream of Wild Turkeys.

We hit Black Velvet Canyon in Red Rocks at midnight on the edge of some serious wind. After blazing the truck around a freshly rolled over SUV (which was pretty creepy - smashed out windows, dome light on, with nobody around) that was blocking the road, we poached the B.V. Canyon parking lot for the next three nights. The first day we climbed a long line next to Frogland called Bourbon Street (5.8+) that instantly had me hooked on long multi-pitch rock routes.

Ladies and gentlemen, Brett Mollenhauer and Ben Smith. Men want to be them, women just want 'em. I think it's the matching grey t-shirts. The imposing Rainbow Wall can be seen in the background between them.

The next day was a trip highlight as we launched off on Dream of Wild Turkeys (5.10-, 1000 ft.) that pretty much blew me away. This was the most sheer wall I've ever been on with pitch after pitch of awesome 5.8 to 5.10 climbing. After whipping on a cam for the first time ever, we finished the final pitch as the sun was setting. This usually isn't a big deal, until you realize that you are a couple of bozo's who left their headlamps in the truck. Yep, we were definitely Those Guys.

Me on the first pitch of the really fun Dark Shadows (5.8).

About half way down the wall, the last of the light was officially gone, and it was dark enough that we couldn't see the rap stations if they were more than five to ten feet in front of our faces. This essentially meant that the only way down was a slow rappel, trying to pendulum from side to side looking for rap anchors. Imagine a blind guy swinging in space on the end of a rope looking for tiny sets of chains tacked onto a massive chunk of vertical rock, and that's about what the lower half of our descent was like.

Mollenhauer topping out on pitch three of Johnny Vegas (5.7), his first mult-pitch rock climb.

Fortunately for us, we eventually finished our vertical-Easter-egg-hunt-style search for anchors, and managed to hit the deck at a speed that wasn't terminal velocity. Unfortunately for us, though, was that it then took almost two hours for us to find our way out of the canyon in the dark. This included funky hand over hand rope down-climbing and even getting lost in the cactus scrub out on the flats. Long story short, it was one seriously kick ass day of desert climbing.

Me pretending I can climb 5.11 at the Panty Wall. What you can't see is the other two dirtbags at the bottom belaying/drinking cans of Olympia. We got used to nasty stares from other climbers pretty quick, and wouldn't hesitate to punish any stuck-up attitudes with soft rock hits from the 80's as loud as the iPod speakers would play them. Climbers beware - don't fuck with dirty Montana bums.

We eventually left Black Velvet, and kept crankin' on sweet, long rock routes. After the first week, Brett Mollenhauer took over Ben Smith's spot on Team Dirtbag, and would finish the final two weeks of climbing on the trip. Both myself and Brett were essentially new to multi-pitch rock climbing, but but after Ben left we quickly found our rhythm and kept knocking off some bad ass long rock lines in the 5.7 -5.9+ range, mixed with some sick sport climbing days in the Calico Hills area.

Mollenhauer on the sharp end, somewhere in the First Pullout area.

Smith killin' it on some tough 5.10/11 sport lines in the First Pullout area.

Brett and I took a quick trip up to Zion to do some slot canyons. We were able to descend the Zion classic The Subway, but were quickly stormed out of there the next day. Before that, though, we were able to climb The Pulpit, which is a free standing tower in Zion's main canyon. This was hilarious because the book we had listed the climb as a 5.9. But after crossing the river and getting to the base, it was looking pretty stout. However, I just chalked this up to the Park's nasty reputation for terrifying climbing and sandbagged ratings. The start was an overhanging sandstone slab that was so smooth I couldn't even get off of the ground.

Yeah, that's really a U.S. Navy sailor uniform that I stole from the Charlie's Pub lost and found box in Missoula (The Pulpit, 5.9 A0). No, I have no plans to give it back.

Feeling like a pussy, I quickly rigged up some slings to use as aid ladders, and promptly began my first aid climb. I was barely even ten feet off the ground before I immediately understood why aiding is completely terrifying. The bolts that I was hanging my nuts off had to be decades old, rusted all over, and hanging halfway out of the rock, with wierd homemade hangers that looked like they were designed to lever bolts out of the wall. Slowly, I made my way up the initial overhanging start to the top half that I hoped was going to be significantly easier. It wasn't.

Mollenhauer modeling our "dry suit/cold water" gear when we did the Subway slot canyon hike. Our solution to the mandatory swims through 38 degree water involved putting as much dry clothing as possible in a single small drybag, and then pretending that we weren't actually feeling the beginning stages of hypothermia. Yeah, we're river professionals.

Mollenhauer in the classic Subway photo-spot. Pictures don't do it justice.

I quickly realized that I wasn't going anywhere by free climbing except quickly downward. So I kept aiding up the crack, pulling on gear and clipping the occasional rusty bolt. I didn't have nearly enough gear for the crack I was on, so I had to keep bumping up the only three cams I had that were big enough. The weather was cold and windy, but I was so damned scared that I was sweating like I was at the fucking gym. Gripped and completely stoked I finally flopped onto the top of the tower grinning like an idiot. Brett prussiked the line, and we lounged out in the evening light drinking a few Natty Lights. We opened the summit register to check it out, and I started cracking up when I read the opening page: "The Pulpit, 5.9 A0, or 5.12 Free." After that climb, anything that looked hard jokingly became a "Zion 5.9."

Looking back into the Subway. Parallel cracks in the rock even looked like tracks.

On a climbing trip like this, the routes end up blending together in a blur of long days, tired bones, and limitless stoke. Brett and I lost count of how many times we drove the Red Rocks loop road, but one of my favorite things every day was getting back to the truck, usually in the evening or often after dark. Tired, smelly, and completely haggard from a long day of pulling on sandstone, we would crack a beer and drive the loop road back to the campground. It was always the perfect ending to what seemed like endless perfect days.

Got yer tickets... to the Gun Show? Mollenhauer on the first pitch of Lotta Balls (5.8).

Towards the end, we were generally so tired every night that we were eating straight out of cans of black beans that we were too exhausted to heat up (We decided to adopt the team name "The Fiber Bandits"). Muscles ached, and we were starting to lose layers of skin from our fingertips. Not that I was complaining - we were running around like Dirtbag Kings, living the dream and feeding the rat.

Mollenhauer crankin' away on the second pitch of Lotta Balls.

All in all, I couldn't have asked more from a first trip to Red Rocks. It's a kick-ass place, get down there if you haven't been. If your lucky, you might even get to see a Rock vs. Stick fight (but that's another story...). Vegas, Baby! Yeehaw!

Only two stars my ass. This is the best climb we did - 1000 feet and not a goddamned soul to share it with. Mollenhauer pullin' onto the final ledge before the headwall pitch of Frigid Air Buttress (5.9+).

Holy shit! Why did I bring my pack for the hardest trad crack I've tried so far? Oh right, I'm a dumb ass... Sounds like its time to head for the Excalibur and the first shower I had in Three Whole Weeks! Vegas, baby. Woohoo! (Final Pitch, Frigid Air Buttress, 5.9+).

Climbs done this trip:

-Bourbon Street 710' 5.8+

-Dream of Wild Turkeys 1000' 5.10a

-Dark Shadows 340' 5.8

-Crabby Appleton 550' 5.9+

-Johnny Vegas 480' 5.7

-Tunnel Vision 750' 5.7+

-Lotta Balls 480' 5.8+

-Black Magic 500' 5.8

-The Pulpit (Zion) 1 pitch, 5.9 A0

-Frigid Air Buttress 940' 5.9+

-And a shit-ton of sport climbin'/beer drinkin'.